Alternities (12 page)

“Not where that book came from,” Robinson said quietly.

Clifton’s grin widened momentarily, then collapsed as he took in Robinson’s meaning. “Look, there’s only one President of the United States—”

“There are at least six,” Tackett said, “not including General Betts, a military dictator who sometimes claims the title.”

The Secretary of State’s mouth worked as his thoughts spun. “Well, all right, sure, there’s probably a hundred people who think they’re President. Like they think they’re God or Napoleon. But there’s only one United States—”

“There are at least seven,” Tackett said, “counting our own. There may be more.”

Clifton had reached a point of total cognitive block. He blinked as though there were something in his eye, shook his head, and looked for help to the others.

“I warned you,” Robinson said bemusedly.

“You understand what he’s talking about?” Madison demanded of Robinson.

Robinson nodded. “Yes.”

The Secretary of State had found his voice. “Where exactly are these other United States supposed to be?”

“I’m going to try to tell you,” Tackett said calmly. “Please, E.C., Dennis, everyone, relax. I know it’s hard, but sit on your questions for a little while. We’re not crazy. The truth is, the world’s a little crazy. We were just a little late discovering it.”

The props helped. They always did. The Guard had learned that lesson early: Things were more real than words. You could bounce words off someone’s forehead for hours and still not put a dent in their denial. But give them something tangible to hold in their hands, and more often than not their self-assurance dissolved like sugar in hot water. And then you could talk to them.

For the Secretary of State, it was the currency kit—three green Washingtons with slightly different designs and very different signatures, one green Eagle, one oversized red-white-and-blue sheet that looked more like a baby stock certificate than money, and a square silver coin the size of a quarter. All dated 1977, all with a face value of one dollar.

He spread the samples out on the table in front of him, stared, rearranged them. He talked to himself, held the bills up to the light, grunted, frowned. He borrowed a “real” dollar bill from Endicott and compared it with each of its kin.

For O’Neill, it was the yearbook—He rested it at an angle against the edge of the table while he paged slowly through it, like a guilty student trying to hide forbidden reading material in his lap. His expression never wavered—somber, even troubled, from title page through to the index. “Left at the first star, and straight on till morning,” he murmured at one point.

For Madison, it was a glossy catalog of small aircraft for sport and pleasure flying—high-wing float planes, aerobatic biplanes, swept-wing canards, fragile-looking gliders. He studied each photograph with the critical eye of an intelligence expert, the knowledge of a former Army pilot, and the heart of a boy who had dreamed of flights to the moon.

Tackett gave them time, but not too much time. Wait too long and resistance would start to build again, he knew. Tackett was a veteran of what the Guard called the cold shock interview. While they were grasping for answers, he supplied them, explaining Endicott’s role and his presence, describing concisely the general state of the world lying beyond each of the six known gates, providing a simple understanding of the functioning of the gate.

And by the time he was done, he knew that they believed.

“If I can have those things back, we have other matters to talk about,” Tackett said.

A thoroughly chastened Ernest Clifton gratefully slid the currency along the table, glad to be rid of its disturbing presence. By contrast, O’Neill was reluctant to surrender the book. Only the CIA director seemed to have found equilibrium.

“There’s nothing you’ve shown us that couldn’t be a fraud,” Madison said, handing the catalog across the table.

“That’s true,” Tackett said. “Does that mean you think they are frauds?”

Madison frowned dourly. “Truth is, I’d really like to believe that. I’ve sat here trying to figure out what your game was, and how you’d conned the President.”

“I don’t con easily, Dennis,” Robinson said.

“I know, sir. So maybe the world is a little crazy.” He hesitated, frowning. “Do you seriously think you can keep this a secret?”

“We have so far, including from your people,” Robinson said. “Is there someone at the table you don’t think can be trusted?”

The director scowled. “No, of course not. But what about when more people know? And how do you know what the Russians know?”

“The cover is solid,” Tackett said. “There have been fourteen attempted penetrations of the Tower by the KGB. We intercepted most and steered the rest into a controlled environment. As far as the Soviets are concerned, the Tower is a think-tank, plain and simple.”

“Thank you, Albert. I’ll take it from here,” Robinson said. He pushed back his chair and ambled to the other end of the room, stopping before the flag to study it. “When we started a couple of hours ago, I said I wanted to restore this country to its proper place. You all knew what I meant by that.

“When I was in my twenties, ours was the greatest nation on this earth. Our Navy had friendly ports around the globe. Our soldiers were the heroes of Europe. Our products were in demand the world over. An American citizen could go damned near anywhere and know that his passport protected him. We had power, and we had respect.”

He turned to face them. “What we’ve lost has become even more clear to me from reviewing NRC reports on the various alternities. Somehow, in some of those Americas, we capitalized on opportunities that we forfeited here.

“This is the world we made, and we have to live in it. But we don’t have to accept it the way it is. Because new opportunities are always coming along, and this time we’re going to make the most of them.

“The Soviet Union is an old alley cat that’s grown fat and lazy sleeping in the sun. They still think they’re champion of the street, when the truth is that they’re a couple of steps from the pet cemetery. Whereas we’re the tame little kitten that grew up lean and mean while no one was looking. And the street is going to belong to us.

“But we have to stop thinking like a kitten to make it happen. We have to take chances. We have to assert ourselves. We have to make our claim, and then we have to make it stick.

“That’s a dangerous business. Maybe we’ll get what we want without having to fight for it. More likely we won’t. Change costs, and sometimes you have to pay in pain.”

He paused, letting that sink in. “I don’t want war. But war is always a possibility. If they push us, we’ll fight for what we believe in. We’ll fight for what belongs to us. We’ll fight, and we’ll hurt them, and we’ll win. But only if we’re prepared.

“You all know what the Alpha List Crisis Evacuation Plan is all about. Most of you have taken part in at least one rehearsal—”

Not me, Tackett thought. Living in Boston shut him out of the primary evacuation plan. But he knew how ambitious the flash evacuation programs were—sixteen helicopters from Andrews Air Force Base descending on preset pickup points around Washington to snatch upwards of a hundred key officials and their families and whisk them to the five shelters scattered along the eastern Appalachians.

After he began to spend so much time in Washington, he had driven up to Boyne Mountain on his own to see the primary shelter. It was civilized, though hardly luxurious. And it felt solid, safe. Fifteen hundred feet of rock was immeasurably more reassuring than the eggshell dome of the South Block, his family’s designated alternate.

“—so you know what the shelters are like. I’m glad we have them. But the truth is that they’re not good enough. The Russians know where they are. You can bet that they’re all targets, along with Washington. And even if they weren’t, shelters won’t be much help if the Russians fight dirty, with bugs or ground-burst bombs.”

Robinson pushed aside a chair and lighted on the edge of the table. “That’s why I asked Albert to help me find a better answer, a better hole to hide in. One that would assure our families a decent life even if the worst came to pass. You’ve probably guessed where this is leading.”

“The alternities,” the Secretary of State said, looking pleased for a change.

Robinson nodded. “The plan is called Rathole. I’m reviewing some more detailed information about the various options. I intend to make a final decision this weekend. Within sixty days, Rathole will be a mature option. It will be there for us if we need it.”

“Rathole,” O’Neill echoed. “Lovely name.”

“What happens to your gate if the Russians drop the Super on Boston?” Madison asked skeptically.

That one was Tackett’s to field. “We don’t know,” he said evenly. “We’ve taken pains not to disturb the gate house even in small ways. There’s no way to tell what happens if it’s destroyed.”

The director grunted. “I’ll tell you what happens—we don’t come back. Have you thought about that?”

“If a submarine missile buries Boyne Mountain in its own rock, we don’t come back either,” Robinson said with sudden sharpness. “Do you have an objection to survivors having a chance to live decent lives? Does everyone have to suffer?”

“No—”

“Because if you have a problem, it’d be just as easy to strike you and your family from the Alpha List. You can stay here in Washington and paint a fucking bull’s-eye on the roof of your house.”

There was some uneasy laughter. Tackett did not join in.

“I’m not that eager to die,” the CIA chief said. “I was just wondering if you’d thought through to the end.”

“We have,” Robinson said. “Dennis, I’d like to be able to protect everyone. I’d like to be able to go on the air and say, we’re going to war, but don’t worry, nobody’s going to die. But we can only protect a few. And it makes sense to me to protect the most valuable members of our government. We embraced that principle when we adopted ALCEP.”

“Keeping the government intact is the key to postwar reconstruction,” the Secretary of State volunteered. “I don’t have any problem with this.”

“We’ve dedicated our lives to our country,” Robinson said. “We don’t have to sacrifice them, as well.”

The CIA chief was still wearing a mystified frown. “Why tell us this?”

“What do you mean?”

“You haven’t asked us for input, for a decision. You haven’t asked us for anything. It’s almost as though you told us as a favor. But you don’t use state secrets as favors. You could have changed ALCEP, had everyone on Alpha List put on a train and shipped to Boston without saying word one about why.”

O’Neill answered. “Can’t you read between the lines, Dennis? Look who’s here. State—Defense—CIA. We’re the face the country shows to the rest of the world.” He turned a hard gaze on Robinson. “That’s it, isn’t it? That’s what this meeting is about. Sixty days’ lead time before the rules change. Sixty days to stop thinking like a kitten.”

Looking pleased, Robinson met O’Neill’s gaze. “Yes, Gregory. That’s what it’s about. I want to turn up the heat on that old alley cat. I want his place in the sun.”